In The Quiet Hours of The Night
by Vahkhiin
Summary: Joan Watson wakes up to the sound of a yawn that doesn't quite sound like Sherlock's. It belongs to something much smaller and something that's made entirely of them combined. (Sherlock/Joan)


**A/N: **Hmm... So this somehow came to me when I was listening to Delta Spirit's Yamaha song. I'm not completely sure if I've really captured Sherlock's point of view properly in this kind of scenario but hopefully I managed to pull it off okay. I'd say more but I might just give it away. The summary probably gave it away already... And I'll stop talking now... Enjoy.

* * *

She wakes up to the sound of a yawn that doesn't quite sound like Sherlock's. She blinks away the sleep and glances toward the window. That's where she finds Sherlock standing and looking outside at the night sky as if sky watching at this time of the evening was the most normal, natural thing to do. She supposes she should be used to this by now given that they've been intimate for the past 18 months already.

But she can't help but entertain the thought of how very different this particular night seems to be. He isn't standing there with his hands in his pocket leaning against the window sill. He doesn't have a cup of tea sitting on the far side of the window ledge with steaming smoke fogging up that corner of the window and the smell of warm tea filling the room. He isn't deducing anything for once, not even a case because thankfully between the downtime Gregson appointed them and the criminals of the city of New York, things have been moderately quiet.

She doesn't think about that though. She doesn't think about the times they've gone scurrying around the city in search for their latest suspect or for clues or leads for a case. She doesn't even think about the time the city went into full lock down or that time they borrowed that snow plough.

She pushes all those thoughts to the furthest point of her mind because right now isn't the moment for that. Now is the moment for her to witness him at his most unguarded state. Now is the time to realize that so much between them has changed since the day she stepped through the doors of this brownstone till now and here.

This time and this particular night he isn't quite all alone and boyish looking with the rays of moonlight cast over him. This time he's standing there completely still and without leaning against anything. His hands aren't in his pockets and all that fills the room is the comforting smell of them, a little bit of him and her combined into something so much more perfect and exactly right. This time is so much more different than any other night she has ever woken up to him sky gazing as he so likes to put it.

This time there's a towel thrown over his shoulder and it isn't because he's just taken a shower or anything like that. This time he's standing there for the first time since they came home from the hospital earlier that evening. He's wearing his favourite pair of pyjamas, the ones she steals from time to time when she's feeling the distinct need to surround herself in his smell. This time there isn't anything possibly conceivably more that could completely bind them together other than that little infant's head resting on his shoulder.

Their creation, a part of him and her combined into this whole, complete and completely perfect baby. The thought is enough to warm her but the sight of them is enough to fill that final missing piece in her life.

She never thought she'd find anything quite like this. She wants to stand there, to slide her arm around his back and press a kiss to their little baby's head. But the moment between father and baby seems to entirely perfect for her to want to intrude upon. She doesn't move from where she is laying on the bed and she only hopes that he hasn't picked up on her unsteady breathing.

He shifts at that moment and she thinks she's been made but then he doesn't turn. He moves from side to side as if swaying to some melody she isn't able to hear. He doesn't hum or sing or make any sound at all. He just sways and looks out the window, eyes probably fixed on something completely disinteresting like a street lamp or the white lines on the road. She asked him once a long time ago after a first few months of them becoming intimate. He told her quite simply without hesitation that he isn't really staring at that object but that he's really just running through his thoughts and using that point of focus to keep himself balanced.

He stops swaying after a while and shifts the little infant from his shoulder to a more comfortable hold in his arms. She watches him with an increasing warmth building in her chest at how carefully he moves as if he is handling the most fragile package in his arm. She has never known him to be this careful with anything else other than her. But here he is holding their baby with so much care and love.

She notices that he doesn't seem to be looking out the window anymore. He's looking down at the little infant in his arms who suddenly seems to find the change of scenery unbecoming. She hears their baby gurgling and making those usual sounds of irritation.

"Don't fret, my boy," she hears him whispering softly, "We don't want to wake your mother up now."

She smiles warmly at his words. He is rarely ever thoughtful to the people around him when he has his mind set on doing something. But somehow with her he always makes an exception to think about someone else other than himself for a change.

She doesn't know why it is or even how it all really began but somehow it. He fell in love with her in the most complete and eternal way a man could ever love a woman. She knows this because he has told her on several occasions when he has felt the need to let her know. He even deduced it a long while after they discovered the true identity of Moriarty. He told her that his love for her could never quite compare to what he had felt with Irene. It had all been a lie after all and besides, with Irene there were drugs but with her, his Joan Watson as he liked to put it, there was only him and that was so much better than any substance could ever contribute.

"Nevermind that now, Collin," she hears him say, this time not as a whisper.

He turns slowly and leans back against the window sill and glances at her, catching her eyes as he does so.

He smiles briefly at her and she doesn't miss that twinkle in his eye before he looks down at their little son.

"Your mother is awake, I see, feel free to make all the sounds you wish," he says in his normal tone but gentler than any other time he has spoken.

She hums and tells him, "I've been awake the whole time, Sherlock."

"Ah…I should have known," he smiles and nods, slightly uncomfortable with his lack of awareness of his surroundings, "I'm sorry, I was preoccupied, you see…"

"I know," she murmurs, "And you don't have to apologize."

"I should have been more…" he pauses for a moment as if struggling to find the right word and with that he uses that moment to step away from the window and toward her. "Alert…"

"To my wondering eyes intruding on a very un-Sherlock moment?"

He nods without smiling as he tries to put on his very business-like face and sits down on the bed beside her.

"I have to…" he pauses to take hold of Collin's wondering little hand, "…maintain a certain kind of exterior, you know," he looks at her and then finally decides to smile, "it won't help if I appear all soft and mushy…"

She smiles then looks away from him and down at their son instead. She presses a kiss against his little head then rests her head back onto the pillow, eyes now looking into his.

"Don't worry," she whispers to him, "I won't tell a soul."

"You are certain?" he asks as he leans toward her. "I can't have my secret getting out."

"I promise," she tells him as he leans in to kiss her.

"If you say so, my dear, Joan," he whispers just barely inches away from her lips.


End file.
